


Deck the Stalls

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childbirth, Horses, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The nice thing is, they even have laundry facilities in here. Might come out smelling a bit horsey, but we can wash anything that gets dirty,” John said, helping Sherlock dress and trying to sound chipper. </p>
<p>“Wonderful. Let me know when you find the necessary materials for an epidural.” </p>
<p>“I did find the OB chains and a come-along crank, if you want me to -“ </p>
<p>“You will not speak one more word,” Sherlock said dangerously, glaring at John as he tied the sash of his robe. “Show me to my birthing suite.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deck the Stalls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts).



> In continuing the tradition of an annual Christmas birth, this year Sherlock gives birth in a literal barn. It's like the Christmas story, only blasphemous. 
> 
> No apologies for the title. I had so many bad puns. Here's a bad joke I came up with. What detergent do elves use to wash their clothes? YULE-TIDE. I am sorry for that one.

The case had taken them out of London, which made Sherlock anxious. He trusted that it would be in and out, easy to solve, and back home before lunch two days later. John had left it up to him whether or not to take the case, as far pregnant as he was, and Sherlock had figured the purse the case would bring in was worth the discomfort the trip would bring.

 

There was, of course, a wrench. Someone always had to throw in a wrench.

 

The horse’s owners were elated to see their darling Thoroughbred back safe and sound, and Sherlock was equally so. He rubbed his lower back as John accepted the cheque and pocketed it, cheeks rosy from the wind and cold. He joined the rest of the group in a tumbler of brandy to celebrate, but when Sherlock glared at him, denied a second pour and led the way out to the car.

 

“The cold is _not_ helping my back,” Sherlock grumbled, lowering himself awkwardly and carefully into the passenger seat. He sagged back against the leather with a sigh, wishing for his sofa and cushions back home.

 

“We’ll be home before long. And the train cars are pretty comfortable, you should be able to rest on the way.” John squeezed his hand and started the car, which sputtered a bit at the cold but warmed up quickly. He navigated the roads slowly as large, fluffy flakes of snow glittered in the late evening sky. Sherlock watched out the window, idly noting that the snow was accumulating and sticking stubbornly to the pines that lined the roadside.

 

“Hope so,” Sherlock sighed, laying a hand on his gravid middle and rubbing gently. Thankfully the baby was still and sleeping, resting heavy and low within him as the days until its arrival ticked down. He had a week to go, and hoped he’d regain his energy from this expedition before labour came.

 

“You’ll get rest,” John said definitively. “And then we’ll be home, and then Christmas, and then baby. You’re being such a worrywart.” He flashed Sherlock a slightly apologetic grin.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept rubbing his belly. “At least one of us has the proper amount of concern over the impending arrival of an infant.”

 

“You’re the one that took the case in the first place,” John countered, and Sherlock had to agree with a put-upon sigh. “Though the six-finger cheque in my pocket does feel a sight better with baby on the way.”

 

“And there’s the rub,” Sherlock said drily. “Should cover expenses clear up through uni and a Master’s, for this one at least.”

 

John flashed him a glance, one eyebrow raised. “For _this one_?”

 

“Never you mind what I have planned.” Sherlock grinned back, shut his eyes, and let John drive.

 

 

 

 

“What do you mean, canceled? Is it going out tomorrow instead, or is it —“

 

“Completely canceled, sir, I’m sorry. The railways are iced over in places, snowed over in others. It’ll be at least a day until they’re cleared, probably more. We can offer you a full refund —“

 

“Damned right you will,” John spat, then held up a hand in apology. “Sorry. I know it’s not your fault. Just frustrating, you know, with him…” He waved a hand toward Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall, bracing one arm against the brick and the other on his back.

 

“I can’t even imagine. Cash or cheque?” the attendant asked, frowning as she looked across at Sherlock. “I can give you a list of hotels in the area, or rental car agencies.”

 

“Hotels, please, and cash if you have it. We need to rest.”

 

“I understand.” The attendant opened the drawer and counted out a series of bills, putting them in an envelope along with a printout of area hotels. John glanced at the list - there were four hotels in town and one outside, and he only hoped they’d have a room available at this hour at this time of year. Christmas Eve was a mere hour away.

 

John thanked and apologized to the attendant one last time, then went over to join Sherlock, who was still leaning against the wall. “Completely canceled. Got a full refund and a list of hotels in the area. We’ll find one for the night and rent a car to go back tomorrow. Alright?” he asked, looking at Sherlock with concern.

 

Sherlock nodded and pushed away from the wall with a grunt. “If that’s what we have to do,” he said. “Nearest hotel?” he peered at the list and rubbed his stomach absentmindedly. “Two blocks away. We can walk it.” He took the paper from John, folded it and put it in his pocket, then went to heft his suitcase.

 

John stopped him with a frown and a shake of his head. “I’ve got the luggage, you ninny. If you think I’m making you carry a suitcase and walk two blocks in the snow, you’ve got another think coming.”

 

Sherlock sighed again and let John take the case without argument. He pulled his coat tighter around him, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and waddled toward the door. With a concerned frown, John followed.

 

 

 

There was, John joked, no room at the inn. It was funny until the second hotel said the same thing. And then the third. With the influx of train passengers displaced for the night, and the seasonal travel rush, most hotels were overbooked and turning away even those who had reservations. With trepidation, John helped Sherlock into a taxi and gave the address for the fourth hotel, just outside of town.

 

“You’re the third couple I’ve taken in the last hour,” the cabbie said with a grin, and John’s heart plummeted.

 

“How many of them had rooms? Did any have to come back?” he asked, worried.

 

“Dunno. None that I know of, at least. Poor buggers, with the trains delayed. Especially you. When’s he due?” the man asked, tipping a thumb in Sherlock’s direction as he pulled away from the curb.

 

Usually, Sherlock would have responded with something acerbic about having ears and being capable of speech, but to John’s surprise, Sherlock kept his eyes closed and acted as if he hadn’t heard. “About a week,” he said with trepidation. “Supposed to be a New Years baby.”

 

“Well, good luck to you,” the driver said, and turned the radio up a tick. ‘Silent Night’ played quietly, and John hoped against hope that the hotel would have space for them.

 

 

John climbed back into the cab and steeled himself. Sherlock cracked an eye open and John could see the hope there. He shook his head, and Sherlock’s face fell. “The couple in front of me took the last room. The absolute last room in the whole city. They even called some B&B’s when I told them about our…situation…but there’s nothing. Not a spare lilo anywhere.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes slid back shut and he blew out a long breath. His behavior worried John, but his main concern right now was finding a place for them to sleep. He was about to ask the cabbie for ideas when Sherlock’s voice, a bit rough, said: “Have him take us back to the farm. Maybe they’ll have a spare room for us.”

 

John’s heart lifted. Sherlock’s idea was good - that house was huge, and they would certainly have a spare bed for the couple that had just brought back their priceless horse. He gave the address to the cab driver and settled back in for the ride.

 

When they arrived, John told Sherlock to stay in the cab. Sherlock seemed happy to comply, settling a little deeper against the seat with his hands folded over his belly. John frowned again and climbed out of the cab, heading to the house.

 

The lights were off, there were fresh car tracks in the driveway, and every entrance John could find - including windows - were locked up tight. He returned back to the car with his hands stuffed in his pockets, hopeless. “My bloody mobile isn’t even picking up a signal,” he said with frustration, stuffing the phone in his pocket as he told Sherlock the situation.

 

A brief look of panic flashed across Sherlock’s face when John relayed the news, but he stubbornly climbed out of the car anyhow, telling John to grab their bags. He did, and dragged them through the thick blanket of snow as his mate waddled heavily toward the house.

 

As the cab pulled away, Sherlock drew his lock-picking kit out of his inner coat pocket and went to work on the front door. At first, John chalked the trembling hands up to the cold, but after the fourth failed attempt and dropped pin, he laid a hand on Sherlock’s forearm and said his name softly.

 

“I need a bed,” Sherlock said, his voice wavering. “And a bath. And, and towels. I’m, I just need -“ The pin slipped from his fingers again and he let out a cry of frustration, pounding the doorframe once with his fist.

 

“Are you alright?” John asked, his hand sliding down to his mate’s wrist to take his pulse. It was racing.

 

Sherlock whimpered. “No.”

 

John swallowed hard. “Is it the baby?” Sherlock only nodded, and John let out a noise of distress. “God, not now. Not here! Of all the - bloody times-“

 

Sherlock’s legs gave out and John barely managed to catch him before he went down. He hauled him back to his feet and held him close, and now John could feel the trembling weakness in Sherlock’s body, the explanation to his behavior over the past several hours. It all made sickening sense.

 

“The barn,” he said suddenly. “The lock will be simpler. There’s blankets, hot water, straw, showers even - we can make a bed. It won’t be as good as a bed in the house, but we’ll be able to get in. Okay?”

 

Sherlock looked up at John and glowered. “I am not giving birth in a barn.”

 

“Well, you’re bloody well not giving birth in the snow either. And we can’t get into the house - not even through a window, Sherlock, you wouldn’t be able to climb in if you tried, and we’re not getting arrested on a B&E. Come on.” He linked arms with Sherlock and, despite weak protests, Sherlock followed.

 

This lock was easier to pick. “Idiots. This is how their horse got stolen the first time. You’d think the first thing they would have done was replaced the locks,” Sherlock sighed, holding the freezing-cold hunk of metal in his hand as John struggled to open the snow-blocked doors. At last they came open and a waft of warm, horsey air blew past Sherlock. He hurried inside and urged John to shut the doors as he searched for the light switch.

 

With the lights on, several horses stuck their heads out of stalls, confused by the entrance of strange men at a strange time. One horse nearby whickered and Sherlock looked over at the stall door. _Marge_ , it read, and beneath the mare’s name, in chalk - _In foal, due 06/01/2016._ “Did you know mares are pregnant for a year?” Sherlock said idly, walking over to look in on the horse. She looked, proportionally, as big and uncomfortable as Sherlock did. She stomped her foot and Sherlock watched as the side of her belly rippled - her foal kicking, for certain. “I’m beating you to the chase, girl,” he sighed, rubbing his own sore belly.

 

John came up beside him, read the plaque on the mare’s stall, and heaved a sigh. “Yeah, you are. She won’t be far behind…but she’s not our worry right now. Come on, love, let’s get you to the jockey’s quarters, I’ll get the shower going.”

 

Sherlock followed him down the walkway toward the jockey’s quarters, glad at least that they knew the layout of the barn and its amenities from their investigation. It wasn’t as good as a hospital, or even their own home, but it would have to do for the time being.

 

The shower, thankfully, ran hot almost immediately, and Sherlock stripped down and stepped in with a sigh of relief. John swallowed hard when he took in Sherlock’s form - his belly settled low and oblong, and his breasts full and sagging on either side. He certainly looked due, and when the Omega shook and leaned against the wall, moaning, John knew for sure that it was time.

 

Sherlock insisted he would be fine in the shower for awhile, so John went looking for an empty stall or room for Sherlock to labour in. There was an empty stall halfway down the aisle from the jockey’s rooms, and John rolled the door open to check inside. Powder on the walls meant it had been very recently cleaned and sanitized, and the dirt floor was clear of any manure or litter. With a few bales of straw, this would make for a fine makeshift bed. He combed a hand through his hair, shaking his head, and went in search of supplies.

 

He came back soon with a cart stacked high with straw, horse blankets, and people blankets, as well as a space heater he’d found unused in someone’s office. He plugged it in to start warming the stall and went back to see how Sherlock was doing.

 

The Omega was still standing under the hot water. John couldn’t help but notice the reddened, swollen tissue around his entrance - surely sore and sensitive as his body dilated. Sherlock stood with his legs spread wide, braced against the wall as he let the water pound down on his back. “Tell me you found an air mattress somewhere. Or a feather bed,” he said, his voice bouncing off the tile wall.

 

John laughed. “Did you one better. Got plenty of straw and some blankets. People blankets, even. Lucked out there.”

 

Sherlock sighed. “Sounds like the best birthing suite an equine could ask for. Can you get my robe from my suitcase?” he asked, turning off the shower and taking the towel from the hook at the end of the stall. He dried off and wrapped it around himself as best he could, but his belly spread the towel wide, exposing his swollen side to the cool air.

 

John complied, getting Sherlock’s robe and his softest pajamas from his bag. “The nice thing is, they even have laundry facilities in here. Might come out smelling a bit horsey, but we can wash anything that gets dirty,” John said, helping Sherlock dress and trying to sound chipper.

 

“Wonderful. Let me know when you find the necessary materials for an epidural.”

 

“I did find the OB chains and a come-along crank, if you want me to -“

 

“You will not speak one more word,” Sherlock said dangerously, glaring at John as he tied the sash of his robe. “Show me to my birthing suite.”

 

 

 

 

John had Sherlock sit on a spare straw bale while he bedded down the stall. The straw wasn’t nearly as dusty as John had expected, and sawdust had added extra cushion to the whole bed. Once the blankets were on top, and extra bales lined the ‘bed space’, John was actually rather proud of his creation. “Alright. Want to have a lie-down? Looks pretty soft, if I do say so myself.”

 

“It looks better than sitting on a solid bale, at least for now. God, John, how did we get ourselves into this situation?” Sherlock asked, struggling to his feet and waddling into the stall. With John’s help he sank down onto the straw and sawdust bed, and was pleasantly surprised by the relative comfort. He laid back on the bedding, pulled a spare blanket down for a pillow, and let himself relax for the first time in a few hours.

 

“Just bad timing on baby’s part, and an oversight on ours. Didn’t think about the train getting canceled - if I’d checked the weather, I might have stopped us going.” John sat down on a bale at the edge of Sherlock’s bed, checking Sherlock over visually. He looked uncomfortable but not panicked, which - given the circumstances - was impressive.

 

Sherlock heaved a sigh, which was as close to agreement as he’d allow himself to get. “I’m going to try to sleep. You can join me if you want. I have to admit the straw bed isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

 

John smiled, a real smile, and crawled down to lie behind Sherlock. He slung an arm over Sherlock’s thick waist, and settled in to wait.

 

 

 

Eventually, the timer on the lights went off, and the barn was cloaked in darkness. Though it would be a nuisance to go out and find the lightswitch later, it made it easier for Sherlock to rest as his labour progressed. The sawdust and straw supported his back well enough, and he was almost able to ignore the fact that he was literally giving birth in a barn. The quiet sounds of horses in adjacent stalls were calming, and several hours passed without much incident.

 

The contractions got stronger and came faster. Sherlock was struggling to stay quiet when the pains came, and John was doing everything he could - he’d found a hot water bottle in with a box of poultices and had it pressed against Sherlock’s back, and was using a mint liniment to rub into his mate’s aching spine to try and relieve tension. The overhanging fear of what might happen if something went wrong hung thick in the stall, but neither man voiced their thoughts beyond the immediate.

 

“Need on my knees. Too much pressure,” Sherlock gasped after a time, and lurched forward, using a straw bale as support to haul himself upward. John helped him up and then slid his pajama trousers down over his hips, stifling a noise of sympathy as he saw Sherlock’s swollen, reddened opening. It was slick with mucus and puffy, getting ready for the passage of their child. Sherlock’s sides heaved and he groaned, loud and long, through a fierce contraction.

 

John wanted to check him, see how dilated he was, but he hadn’t been able to locate any gloves or other tools that made him comfortable enough sanitation-wise to invade his mate’s body. They’d just have to do this by instinct.

 

Gradually, the contractions forced Sherlock into different positions, and John had to help his mate out into the aisle to pace. Every few minutes, Sherlock dropped into a squat, leaning against whatever stall was nearest, and groaned through a contraction. “Just don’t push,” John murmured, rubbing Sherlock’s lower back firmly as the brunet shook.

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock spat back. John refused to let himself feel hurt by the words - Sherlock was in the worst pain of his life without relief or respite from it, and John could only do so much to help. He kept kneading Sherlock’s lower back until the man shook him off and stood back up on shaky legs.

 

John had lost track of time awhile ago, and had only the vaguest idea of how long Sherlock’s labor had been. He had no way of knowing what stage Sherlock was in, how urgent things were - at least, until Sherlock started trailing water on his slow path back to his stall. “Sherlock…”

 

“I know.” The man’s voice was hoarse and raw, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. Birth was clearly imminent. He disappeared back into his stall, John quick on his heels, and was halfway into the bed before John could even help him down. “Pants off. Can’t…need to, mmm. Push.”

 

John swallowed hard and helped strip Sherlock’s wet pajamas off. He tried not to worry when he saw the rear was stained with a little blood along with the amniotic fluid. Sherlock’s thighs were shiny with it, and his opening was more inflamed and raw than he’d ever seen it. “Are you sure you’re ready? Do you feel an urge?”

 

A sharp nod was all he got in answer before Sherlock curled up around himself, keening loudly into his upper arm. John winced in sympathy as he watched Sherlock’s belly ripple and pull tight, his muscles forcing their baby down and out.

 

Their baby. There was an end goal, now - one that John had almost forgotten in the worry and flurry of taking care of Sherlock. The labor was nearing its end, and soon, their child would enter the world, wailing and wet and new. “Alright. You’re almost there, love. Do what your body tells you.”

 

“Haven’t much choice,” Sherlock grunted, gripping his own thigh and pulling his leg up. Taking in a few short breaths, the man tucked his chin to his chest and pushed.

 

John ran to the jockey’s quarters to wash his hands one last time, and came back just in time for the tail end of another monumental push. Sherlock’s body was starting to spread, the mass of their baby in his birth canal starting to open him up. At Sherlock’s request, John helped him onto elbows and knees.

 

The next push had Sherlock gritting his teeth against a throaty cry, and John watched and encouraged him as his body spread open. With his spine rounded and his arms tucked up, Sherlock was the image of labour, his thighs framing the base of his belly as he gathered all his strength and pushed. John laid a hand on his lower back and filled the stall with quiet encouragements, punctuated by Sherlock’s guttural grunts and moans as he worked.

 

A long groan tailed off in a helpless whimper, and John looked down to see the blunt top of a scalp stretching Sherlock open. “I can see the head,” he said in awe, resisting the urge to touch this - the first piece of their baby he’d ever seen.

 

“Like fire,” Sherlock rasped, taking in a few shallow breaths and grunting again. His thighs quivered and John stared, transfixed, as Sherlock’s body yawned open around the curve of their baby’s skull. The stall was quiet as Sherlock pushed, and John’s hand shook as he moved it into place. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, their baby’s head slid from Sherlock’s body and into the waiting cup of John’s hand. He swiped at his eyes to clear the tears that had gathered there, and relayed to Sherlock what he saw.

 

“A little hair,” he said, his voice thick. “And your lips. M-my nose.”

 

“Explains why it was so hard to get out,” Sherlock said, and John swatted his arse lightly. Sherlock chuckled, breaking some of the tension, and bore down again.

 

A scant few minutes later, the baby’s body had twisted to face Sherlock’s thighs, the shoulders squaring up with his pelvis to exit his body. Sherlock’s strength was flagging, but a titanic shove brought the shoulders out just enough that John could hook one finger under the infant’s arm and help it on its way.

 

With one last quiet grunt, Sherlock expelled the thick body and legs of their firstborn child, and John hurried to pat the baby on its bottom until it started awake and began to wail. Grinning like a madman, John rubbed the baby’s back until it coughed and cried again, louder and longer than the first time. The unmistakable cries of a newborn baby filled the stall, then the stable, and soon the sound of horse’s hooves echoed through the aisles.

 

“You did it,” John said, unable to mask the joy he felt. He fished in his suitcase for a clean sweat jacket and wiped the baby off as best he could, then wrapped it in one of Sherlock’s thick winter maternity shirts. Sherlock’s arms were wide open and waiting, and John settled the still-crying infant into its rightful place with mummy.

 

“Hello there, you,” Sherlock murmured, and slowly, the baby’s cries started to diminish. John pulled the scissors and sterile catgut from the emergency medical kit he’d found in the main office. Peeling back the impromptu baby blanket, he tied off the umbilical cord and made one careful cut, dabbing the end in iodine scrub for extra precaution before wrapping the baby back up. Sherlock afforded John one broad, tired smile before turning his attention back to the brand-new baby in his arms.

 

The child’s purple skin gradually pinkened, establishing its own blood flow separate from Sherlock’s body. Sherlock drew in a shaky breath as he gazed down at the baby, lifting one shaking hand to peel back the blankets. He gave another shuddery gasp and tears sprang anew to his eyes. “A girl,” he said, looking up at John with tears streaming down his cheeks. “A daughter.”

 

“Oh,” John said, quietly. It was all he could think to say - the whole thing was so surreal, and he’d barely had time to think about what life would be like once the baby was here that he’d hardly thought to imagine whether they’d have a boy or a girl. “Oh,” he said again, shaking his head in awe. “Oh, our baby girl.” Tears gathered in his own eyes, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

 

John got Sherlock cleaned up and re-dressed as best he could, and took his dirtied clothes and put them in the washer in the jockey’s quarters. He found some freshly-washed towels and brought them back to swap out Sherlock’s lightly-bloodied maternity shirt, and soon the baby girl was swaddled and sleeping in Sherlock’s arms.

 

It hadn’t even occurred to John that stablehands would be around in the morning to care for the horses until the lights all turned on and he heard footsteps in the aisle. Knowing that someone would come across them soon, and wanting to head off any hostility from frightened employees, John stepped out of the stall and called out. “Hello, it’s John Watson, my partner and I brought back the missing horse yesterday. We, erm, had an emergency - who’s there?” he asked, scrubbing a hand through his hair and hoping the person coming around the corner wouldn’t be wielding a pitchfork.

 

To his relief, it was one of the owners of the stable, who looked shocked and worried to see him. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you go home last night?” he asked, looking in confusion at the half-stocked cart and opened stall door behind John.

 

“We were supposed to. But the train was canceled because of weather, and the hotels were full, and nobody was home and we couldn’t get into the house and — and Sherlock went into labour, and our mobiles weren’t working. It was all a…a bit of a disaster, really. But everything’s fine now.” He took a few steps forward to stop the concerned stable owner from coming much closer.

 

“He went into labour? And you - you brought him in here?” the woman asked incredulously, stopping a few paces from John and looking torn between being angry and being worried. She vacillated for a moment and then settled on worried, wringing her hands. “Is he okay? Do you need an ambulance?”

 

“Probably, yes. A horse stall probably isn’t the best place to give birth —“

 

“He _gave birth_ in a horse stall?” the woman asked, her voice panicked.

 

John sighed and held out his hands. “I’m sorry. We didn’t have anywhere else to go, we’ll pay you back for the straw and sawdust and the…use of your facilities, we just needed to get him inside —“

 

“You daft man! I’m not worried about that, I’m worried about your mate! Is he okay? What about the baby?” She pushed past him and peered into the stall, a look of wonder on her face as she saw the scene inside.

 

“She’s asleep,” Sherlock said quietly, looking up from the slumbering baby. He was propped up against the straw bales and covered with one of the only clean blankets John had been able to find, his hair still damp and face still glossy with sweat.

 

The owner’s jaw dropped. “How - when - you weren’t due…” She swallowed hard. “But you’re fine? She’s fine?”

 

“We’re all okay,” Sherlock replied. “Tired, and in need of a proper bed. And a proper wash. But otherwise okay.”

 

The owner turned back to John with a look of incredible apology on her face. “I am _so sorry_ that nobody was here to help you. I can’t imagine how you accomplished this all on your own - god, let me call an ambulance and get you inside the house in the meantime. The roads are awful, it might take them some time to get here. We can at least get you in a bed.” She pulled out her mobile and called her partner, then an ambulance. Soon there was a small crowd of people standing outside the stall, with Sherlock and the baby still nestled comfortably and warmly inside.

 

They found a stretcher - one used for immobile horses, but still - and got Sherlock moved onto it and bundled in with ease. Before long the new family were resting in a guest room in the owner’s large home, with Sherlock freshly sponge-washed and the baby duly cleaned. The ambulance, they were told, would be there within the hour, ready to take them to hospital to be looked over. For his part, Sherlock felt fine, and as far as John could tell, the baby was as healthy as…well, a horse.

 

“I’m telling you right now,” Sherlock said, meeting John’s eye, “We are not naming our child anything that has any connection to the holiday season, Christmas, Christmas Eve, the Christmas story, Mary, Joseph, Jesus, or a bloody horse.”

 

“That knocks all the names off my list,” John said with a sigh.

 

~~Angela~~

~~Angelica~~

~~Evelyn~~

~~Eve~~

~~Christina~~

~~Christa~~

~~Christen~~

~~Holly~~

~~Joy~~

~~Carol~~

~~Noel~~

~~Mary~~

~~Marilyn~~

~~Jessica~~

~~Josephine~~

 

“Do you have any suggestions?” he asked, pulling out his mobile to — wait. “Hang on, I’ve got one. No connection to - what were your parameters? The holidays, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, and horses?”

 

“Also the Christmas story in general.”

 

“Noted. What about Jenny?”

 

Sherlock hummed. He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “I don’t see any connection to any of those things. Where did you come up with it?”

 

“Dunno. Just came to me. It’s a nice name - and Jenny is different than Jennifer, so less popular. We can even make her middle name something nice and complex to satisfy your Holmesian need for lengthy names.”

 

Sherlock hummed again. “A constellation name. Since she was born on a clear night. Not one of the popular ones, though.” He tapped a finger thoughtfully against the baby’s elbow. “Ceres? Carina? Seren? Ooh. Seren,” he repeated. “It’s just generic for star, but I like it. Jenny Seren?” he said, looking up at John.

 

“Well, it certainly won’t be a similar name to anyone else in her class,” John agreed.

 

“Which is clearly what we’re going for. Well, then.” Sherlock looked down at the newly-christened baby. “Hello, Jenny Seren Holmes-Watson. Aren’t you glad to have a name.”

 

John smiled and settled in next to Sherlock and Jenny, looking out the window at the slowly-fallen snow. She had come a few days early by any standard of measure, but John couldn’t think of a better Christmas gift.


End file.
